


Bloodlines

by Patchworkdk



Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchworkdk/pseuds/Patchworkdk
Summary: When Lassiter goes missing, Shawn and Jules discover the real reason the detective was never fooled by Shawn's charade -- because Carlton is actually psychic, and supernatural powers are more dangerous than either of them had ever imagined. Written Lassiet, easily read as gen.





	1. One

**K-0, 8PM Tuesday**

“ _O'Hara!”_

Juliet's heart was pounding. Her stomach was tight with the sick feeling of being awoken suddenly from sleep. She knew there was no way she'd actually heard her old partner's voice in her bedroom here in San Francisco. But it also didn't feel like a dream. Dream-Carlton did not stubbornly refuse to use her married name the same way his living counterpart did.

“Spencer was 'Spencer' first, you'll have to make do with 'O'Hara,'” Lassiter had said when asked. “Besides, now you know if I ever call you 'Spencer,' I'm speaking under duress even if I tell you everything is fine.”

Juliet eased herself out of bed, not that anything short of a lightning strike could wake Shawn. The sense of uneasiness didn't fade after she went to the bathroom, so Juliet padded softly downstairs to make herself a cup of warm milk. She'd only went to bed a half an hour before, an early bedtime following an exhausting day. The night was still salvageable if she could just get back to sleep.

Juliet talked herself out of going upstairs and texting Lassiter three times. It was just a bad dream.

Her cell rang at one in the morning: Marlowe.

“Hi, Juliet,” Marlowe's voice sounded as brittle as Juliet felt hearing it. It wasn't just a dream. “I feel silly asking... but did Carlton say anything about driving up to visit you? He hasn't come home, he isn't answering his phone, and Lilly is-- She's never cried like this. I think something is wrong.”

“You're not silly,” Juliet said, shaking Shawn awake. “Something is definitely wrong. If you haven't heard from Carlton by morning, call Brannigan and report him missing. Call me as soon as you file so I can put in for emergency leave. Shawn and I will be there as soon as we can.”

~*~

**K+16: Noon, Wednesday**

The rule of thumb for law enforcement was that if you didn't recover a missing person in the first forty-eight hours, you had best brace yourself not to find them at all. By the time they got to Santa Barbara, Carlton's car had already been found abandoned four blocks from the station with the airbag deployed. Brannigan had checked the SBPD server to find out when Carlton logged off and started pulling traffic camera footage.

They were well ahead of the usual timeline for a kidnapping. It still felt like too little, too late.

There was something like panic in the back of Juliet's mind, a real fear of which she'd never felt the like. Fury, too.

The tape wasn't promising: a flawless PIT maneuver to take out Carlton's car by a black Ford Denali with tinted windows and no plates. The driver and his two henchmen had been wearing masks. There was nothing polished about how they took Lassiter down when he fought back. The men were familiar enough with crime, but not professionals.

There was a black book full of suspects in Lassiter's desk drawer, names marked with stars.

~*~

**2 AM, Wednesday**

Lassiter struggled when they pulled him from the van, and made them work for every inch of ground thereafter as they pulled him to wherever his kidnappers planned to hold him. He shouted as loudly as his gagged mouth allowed, even though the amount of time he'd spent bound and blindfolded in the back of the vehicle meant there was probably no one around to hear him. He burned the sounds and smells of his journey into his mind.

Lassiter kicked one of his captors when they tried to tie him to a chair. He didn't hear the sound of breaking bone or joint, but as hard as he'd been hit in retribution the man would be walking with a limp. Probable cause, at the very least. Brannigan and O'Hara would be certain to follow up on his list of convictions.

At last the hood was pulled away by someone standing behind him. Carlton swallowed as best he could past the gag. It was time for the moment of truth: if his captor was masked, he intended to leave behind a witness.

Lassiter was in what looked like the remains of an old mill. It was Gold Rush era construction or later. There was a large water wheel with planks stretched across the water in front of the wheel. The wheel had restraints attached. The water was still, obviously dammed off from its source. Illumination was provided by floodlights on bright yellow stands like you'd find in a mechanic shop or construction site. The windows had been sealed shut with metal sheets cemented to the stone. The old wooden doors had been replaced with thick steel. The lock was a keypad. Lassiter could hear at least two generators outside. There was no way to tell what time it was.

Across from Lassiter there was an exposed mattress spring, manufactured before the industry had switched to enclosed box springs. There was a home-made control box next to it, connected to wires and a battery. Carlton knew the setup was called a parilla. He also knew enough about its operation to fear it. There were swooping lines and symbols painted (burned?) into the stone floor. The circle encompassed most of the space. At the circle's center a chain hung from the high ceiling.

Across from Carlton was another chair, this one without restraints, and a small reading stand. The reading stand held a slim black case of pre-filled hypodermic needles.

His captor removed the gag.

“Experts have proven torture is an unreliable method of gathering accurate intel,” Lassiter growled.

“And a bright good morning to you as well, Chief.” His captor walked around Carlton's chair to sit down. No mask. Lassiter didn't recognize him by name or context, but he did look vaguely familiar. His clothes were designed for physical exertion and were of a quality make. Of course, thugs and a torture chamber didn't come cheap, either. “That would be most relevant if it was information I was after.”

His captor pulled an alcohol wipe from his back pocket and tore it open.

“The CIA is credited with inventing this technique. A barbituate in one arm, followed by an amphetamine in the other: a sort of... roller-coaster. There are only so many rounds one can take before the heart gives out, but don't worry. You're no use to me dead.”

Lassiter had been tied with his hands facing palm up. When he'd been tied down, someone had slit his sleeves open almost to shoulder with some sort of sharp instrument. Now Carlton knew why. His captor used the alcohol wipe on the inside of Lassiter's elbows.

“If it's not information you're after, then what do you want, –?” Carlton drew out the pause at the end. His captor wouldn't be stupid enough to give his own name, but even an alias would be something.

“You can call me... 'Steve.' And I want you to do something for me that you don't want to do. So I'm going to hurt you. Then I'm going to give you a chance to make it stop. You'll probably refuse, of course. So I'll keep hurting you until you are pissing yourself and begging me for mercy.” Steve picked up a needle from the left side of the case and uncapped it. “I'll offer again. Then you'll give me exactly what I want.”

Lassiter's hands felt numb and he wanted desperately to throw up, but he kept his jaw set stubbornly. Whatever “Steve” wanted, there was a reason he thought Carlton would refuse even under threat of torture.

Steve slid the needle into Carlton's vein and depressed the plunger. The world slowly faded. For the moment, the dread faded with it.

 


	2. Two

**K+17, 1 PM Wednesday**

“We've got to treat this like any other kidnapping,” Brannigan told the assembled SBPD detectives. “Most of you have known Chief Lassiter for a very long time, but we do not have time for mistakes or sloppy police work. No assumptions. Most of you have been assigned several of the people Lassiter personally arrested. The Chief's father was bad news. They were estranged, but his criminal associates might not have known that. We've assigned some of you the most notorious of those associates. Be methodical: check for alibis, then move on. We need a viable suspect pool ASAP. McNab is screening the death threats and hate mail for anything out of the ordinary. Myself, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, and Head Detective Spencer will interview his wife and family. Hopefully they will know something that can help us narrow down the list. The only thing forensics is telling us is that they drove north out of town, so this is all down to feet on the pavement. Get to it.”

“Have we had any luck tracking down Lassiter's father at all?” Juliet asked once Brannigan joined them at the back of the bullpen.

“His father died over a year ago,” Brannigan stated. Seeing the look on Juliet's face, Brannigan continued more gently, “he didn't say anything to any of us either, and he didn't take bereavement leave. John Lassiter's rap sheet was a mess. He started small-time: drunk and disorderlies, DUIs. He was sent to jail when Lassiter was 17, where he killed a fellow inmate during a dispute. He was moved to maximum security. Apparently he found work in prison as an enforcer or just discovered he like it, because he killed four more inmates and then a guard. He was sent to a federal penitentiary with a life sentence, no parole. There are records of visitation from the Chief's sister, but none from Chief Lassiter himself. Over a year ago John disappears right out from under the feds' nose. Records say they did a perfunctory check, but the Chief was here in Santa Barbara at the time. Ten months ago the Feds found a mass grave in Illinois and ID'ed John off of dental records. Time of death indicates whoever sprang him killed him right afterwards. No forensics, no leads, no one ever returned to the dump site: cold case.”

“Jesus,” Shawn said. “Do you think whoever it was is after Lassie now?”

“Maybe. Most of the victims who have been identified are career criminals. But some of them were family members of career criminals with no actual criminal histories themselves,” Brannigan stated. “But I hope not, because if it is the serial killer, then Lassiter is already dead.”

“He's not,” Juliet blurted. She swallowed, surprised by her own insistence. “Just a feeling.”

“I have the same feeling, too,” Shawn said firmly, raising two fingers to his temple for Brannigan's benefit.

“I think we'll cover more ground if we split up,” Brannigan said, “cop with PI. Lassiter's mother is in my office, and the younger Mrs. Lassiter is home with Lilly.”

“I should talk to Marlowe,” Juliet said. “I think she'd be more comfortable talking to me, and Carlton's mother never really liked me. We, ah. We got off on the wrong foot.” Fresh-faced and newly minted as a detective, Juliet had been trying to get information for Carlton's surprise party. She'd accidentally made Carlton's mother think she was receiving the call notifying her her son had been killed in the line of duty. Then Juliet had accidentally let slip her son was separated from his now-ex-wife.

“I'll go with Brannigan,” Gus volunteered. “No offense, Shawn, but Lassiter's mom has been waiting for this a long time. She's got to be really busted up and that's not really your thing.”

“I can be sensitive. And empathetic. Ish.”

“Shawn,” Gus chided.

“Yeah, you're right. Marlowe knows my methods, anyway.”

Shawn could be sensitive and empathetic-ish, so when Jules was quiet on the drive out to Shawn's childhood home – now the Lassiter homestead – he asked why.

“I heard his voice, Shawn. It woke me up out of a sound sleep like he was shouting for help. I thought it was just a nightmare but then Marlowe called--” Not for the first time, she wished Shawn was actually psychic. If he was, he could tell her she wasn't going crazy. “And now I've got this, this sick feeling that Carlton is terrified and that something really bad is happening, worse than Yang, and I can't--”

Juliet pulled the car over. She put her head in her hands and took deep breaths. This wasn't professional. This wasn't helpful. This wasn't her. She had to get it together.

“It's okay, Jules,” Shawn said. He leaned across the center divider to wrap his arms around her. “He's your best friend. If somebody had Gus-- I don't know what I'd do. I don't think I could even manage to keep it together as much as you have. But we're going to find him, okay? We're going to get the band back together and not just for a lousy best-hits cd that gathers dust in the dump bins of Best Buy.”

“What?”

“You know what I mean, Jules. I'm a certified genius at crimefighting, Gus is awesome, you're braver than anyone I know, and Brannigan is almost another me. Whoever this is, they are going down. Scout's honor.”

“You were never a Boy Scout,” Jules chided, comforted in spite of herself. She started the car. Shawn slid over to the passenger seat.

“I bought enough cookies in my lifetime that I'm practically an honorary Girl Scout.”

Juliet visited Carlton whenever they came down to Santa Barbara to see Shawn's dad. Some of the changes the Lassiters had made to Shawn's childhood home were old news: Marlowe's fenced in garden, the new paint job, the screened in porch. Others, like the roses and the chicken coop, were new.

The note on the doorbell said not to ring, so Juliet texted Marlowe to let her know they'd arrived.

Marlowe looked worse than Juliet felt. They were ushered into the kitchen and offered coffee, which they declined, then tea, which they accepted more out of pity than anything else. Lilly was asleep on the living room floor, the exhausted dead-drop of a toddler who simply couldn't fight sleep any longer.

Juliet asked the usual questions and Marlowe answered almost mechanically: no, Carlton hadn't seemed any more nervous than usual lately; there hadn't been anyone strange around the house; no strange packages in the mail; she didn't know anyone other than his black book who would want to hurt him; no, there hadn't been any disputes at work.

“Did Lassie look into his Dad's murder at all?” Shawn asked from the kitchen door.

Marlowe dropped the sugar bowl. It shattered on the tile.

“God damn it,” Marlowe swore as the noise woke her daughter.

“You get Lilly, we'll clean this up,” Juliet offered, both out of a friend's concern and a cop's desire to get the witness out of the room to strategize with her partner. Shawn knelt next to Juliet, ostensibly to help put the porcelain in the wastebasket.

“That was a big yes,” Shawn murmured. “But why wouldn't Lassie clue us in for something this important? He had to know we'd help, even if it was out of his and your jurisdiction.”

“I don't know,” Juliet whispered back. “Marlowe's been in the system. She won't fall for good cop/bad cop.”

“Then we'll just have to go with the truth.”

By the time Marlowe returned from getting Lilly back to sleep, the Spencers had swept up the sugar and poured the tea. Marlowe cradled her cup rather than drinking it.

“Marlowe,” Juliet said firmly. “You have to tell us what you know even if it's something Carlton told you in confidence. We are running out of time. What did Carlton find?”

Marlowe's expression deepened from worry to near tears.

“Carlton's family has this--” Marlowe took a deep breath before continuing. “This genealogy project they've kept for... for years. He-- the identified victims-- their families are all in it. Somewhere. Sometimes it's centuries back, but they're there. Carlton-- Carlton said the killing had stopped, that it was over. I don't understand--”

“The killer could have just stopped dumping the bodies there because the grave had been disturbed,” Shawn chimed in. “What made Lassie think the killing had actually stopped?”

“I don't know. He said whoever it was wasn't coming for us. We were-- safe.” Marlowe covered her mouth with her hand, her arms half-folded across her chest.

Juliet reached over to hold Marlowe's upper arms. She put every ounce of police calm into her next question.

“Marlowe, this is important: did Carlton tell the FBI?”

Marlowe shook her head.

“We need that genealogy,” Juliet said. “Do you have it?”

“It's in the attic,” Marlowe said softly. “Juliet-- the O'Haras are in it, too. The families branched off in the 1700s, Carlton said, but-- They're there.”

It was a good thing Juliet was already terrified. It gave her a certain aplomb about the fact she could be next. It also dulled the anger that Carlton hadn't seen fit to warn Juliet that she could be a target.

The genealogy was massive. It filled a dozen boxes and another handful of chests. The books were cross-referenced to each other: a maze of descendents, siblings, and ancestors. Some of the books looked like they dated from the 1800s. Old and new were decorated with a stylized, backwards F burned into the bindings.

“How could Carlton be so stupid?” Juliet's hands were shaking as she dialed Brannigan. They would need half a forensics team just to move the genealogy to the Lab, and a full team just to make sense of it. With that many victims and potential victims, finding a motive for the massacre would take a miracle.

“Denial that someone could want to kill his daughter, maybe,” Shawn said. “Thought he could handle it by himself, more likely. Wow, you and Lassie are related. He's officially my in-law.”

“We need to search this house,” Juliet said while her call rang through. Shawn was right, which was awkward, but she couldn't process that now. She would later, when Lassiter was safe. “Carlton apparently didn't tell Marlowe about the killer's motive, but he would have taken notes about his casework.” They would need to move Marlowe and Lilly as well. If the killer knew enough about Carlton to know he was a suitable victim, it would be foolish to think he didn't know where Carlton lived. Marlowe might be safe, but Lilly wasn't.

“At least we can be somewhat sure the killer won't off Lassie right away. He, or she, will want to find out how much Lassie's investigated and who he told.”

It was a slim hope, but it was better than nothing.

~*~

Marlowe didn't make them get a warrant. The forensics team tore into the house like a crime scene, looking for anything that looked like a case-file or a hidden compartment. Juliet and Shawn opted to search the master bedroom themselves. It was as close as they could come to leaving Lassiter some privacy.

The only thing out of the ordinary was a small wood shelf mounted on the wall above Lilly's reach. It held a gold statue of Lady Justice flanked by two candles. There was a metal plate with something on it in front of the the statue. There was also a silver candle snuffer.

“No way. Is that an altar?” Shawn said in disbelief.

Marlowe was pagan as well, Juliet knew, though a different pantheon than Carlton. Marlowe's ankh necklace was what had first attracted Carlton's attention. Shawn couldn't be trusted to be mature about that information, however, so Juliet kept quiet.

She approached the altar to get a closer look at the offering plate. It was tin. There was a ring of hand-punched holes around the outer edge. The stylized F from the genealogy books was represented in red wax at the plate's center. The wax was aged. Silver chain was looped through the holes, criss-crossing again and again over the F.

“This is supposed to be a binding, I think,” Juliet said. Juliet didn't know the specifics of spellwork. Carlton hadn't volunteered much about his faith beyond the most basic outline. Juliet's family had raised her to consider it rude to ask about someone's religion. “Justice holding crime at bay? I wish I knew what this wax symbol meant.”

“You know... I've seen this before,” Shawn said, gesturing at the red wax.

“It's on the genealogies in the attic.”

“No, before that.” Shawn scrunched his face up, pressing two fingers of each hand against his temples as he searched his photographic memory. After several minutes he snapped his fingers. “Lassie's internet history. Gus and I had a friend hack Lassiter's computer once, and there was a website that had this symbol and a whole lot of really gross stuff. The site called it 'the Mark of Cain.'”

“The Mark of Cain,” Juliet repeated in disbelief.

“I don't say this very often, but I don't know what that means.”

“The Mark of Cain is from Cain and Abel,” Juliet said. “The Bible? Look, after Cain killed his brother, he was afraid his relatives would take revenge. So God gave him a mark so everyone would know who he was and wouldn't be able to kill him. Cain was given a wife and then exiled. Why would Carlton have someone's idea of the mark on a plate in his bedroom?” Worse, why did the Lassiters have it on their genealogy?

“Maybe to him it's just the family crest of a family he didn't like,” Shawn guessed.

“Maybe,” Juliet looked back at the plate. Possible, but plausible? “What have you gotten yourself into, Carlton?”

 


	3. Three

**1 PM Wednesday**

When Steve released the winch holding the chain aloft, Carlton hit the cobblestones hard enough to be winded. His arms and legs were numb. Everything in his core hurt from the fall. Even though he couldn't breathe, he was still shivering. His couldn't tell if his eyes were watering or if he was weeping.

He knew consciously that it was involuntary either way. Carlton still hated himself for the weakness.

Weakness was the point.

Steve had kept alternating doses, stimulant and depressant, until Carlton had been sick. He'd been at once too keyed up and too groggy to resist being stripped of his vomit-covered clothes. Steve had wasted no time strapping him to the wheel. Being lowered into the cold water had sobered him up some. Being brought to the edge of drowning only to be pulled from the water and then immediately forced back under had left him in no state to do much more than gasp for air upon his release. Steve's last act had been to cuff Carlton's wrists to the chain. The winch had pulled the chain high enough to force Carlton up onto his tip-toes.

Then Steve turned off the lights and left, presumably to sleep.

Carlton hadn't been able sleep. As soon as his legs relaxed, transferring his weight to his shoulders and wrists, the pain would wake him. Worse, the mill wasn't heated. Steve had strung him up drenched. Even his half-dozes had been interrupted when a particularly violent shiver had pulled his legs out from under him.

Cold, drugs, humiliation, hunger, sleep deprivation, sensory deprivation: the real torture hadn't even started. This was weakening his physical resistance.

The world greyed out. The floor seemed to spin madly as his body turned itself into a mass of pins and needles.

Everything snapped abruptly back into focus. The floodlights were too bright. His heart was pounding like a blacksmith's hammer at Old Sonora Town. Cold sweat stood out on his skin and he was a different kind of breathless. He was back in the chair.

The amphetamine.

“God damn it, at least tell me what I'm refusing to do!” Carlton shouted, bending forward as much as the restraints would allow. He couldn't even focus his vision, much less his thoughts.

Finally, Carlton was able to slow his breathing to something more normal. The world was still far too bright and vivid, but he could breathe. In, out. His arms and legs twitched now and then of their own volition.

“Do you recognize this man?” Steve asked. Judging from the sharpness in his voice, he'd been asking for a while.

Carlton looked up from the floor. While he'd been fighting his body for control, Steve or his thugs had rolled in a cage.

He did recognize the man despite the fact he had aged: Sam Brooks. Brooks had killed his ex-girlfriend and her new lover during Lassiter's second year as detective. The murder weapon had been found in Brooks's car during a routine traffic stop. Lassiter had had him dead to rights only to have the charges dropped before the case could even make trial. The rookie cop who had made the original stop had searched Brooks's car _before_ securing the warrant. The gun had been ruled inadmissible in court. Worse still, every piece of evidence Carlton had found as a result of that gun had been ruled fruit of the poisoned tree. With all his forensics gone, all the jury could ever hear was circumstantial evidence at best. The DA had simply... given up.

Brooks was a large part of why Carlton had destroyed Shawn's foolhardy confession. He liked Shawn when he didn't want to strangle him, true, and he never wanted to see Juliet hurt. That mattered little compared to what would happen if Shawn's deception was discovered. Vick had made a Devil's Deal for eight years despite Carlton's every warning. Breaking that deal now would only result in more injustice, not less.

“I know who he is,” Carlton rasped. “Your point?”

“Good,” Steve said. The torturer pulled a redwood case from the top of the cage. He opened it. Inside was an elegant dagger with a bone blade. “You're going to kill him.”

“No.” The denial was reflexive and immediate. Half of it was principle.

Half was horror.

There were only a handful of reasons to mark the floor with a Devil's Trap and then ask a good cop to dispense vigilante justice with a bone knife.

Despite a lifetime of unrelenting vigilance -- of not using his abilities to so much as light a candle or even save Juliet's life – magic had found him all the same.

~*~

**K+24, 6 PM Wednesday**

Juliet finished her coffee outside the forensics lab and dropped the cup in the trashcan provided for that purpose. Though Juliet had resented Brannigan using her rank as acting chief to railroad Juliet into a nap, she had to admit Brannigan was right. Juliet's head was much clearer now than it had been a few hours before.

A few officers were checking the last few names in Carlton's black book who had not yet been accounted for. The general consensus was that this wasn't work-related. Brannigan had contacted the FBI to try to get the files for John Lassiter's case. Federal agents from Illinois were already on their way. Ostensibly, they were going to evaluate if Carlton's case was related and assist. Everyone knew that meant in three hours the feds were taking over.

The forensics team had started with the newest volumes. Carlton apparently hadn't actually updated the genealogy since becoming its custodian. Parents and grandparents of the victims were listed far more often than the victims themselves. Even so, the names spread out on the walls were a disturbing picture painted in rap sheets: theft, intent to distribute, assault, murder, spousal abuse. Even the peaceful ones were still connected with violence somehow: CSIs, security guards, military members, police.

The same aggression, but channeled productively. Lassiter had never once crossed the line into excessive force. He'd come close, though, enough times that the entire department (and Gus) had had no trouble believing him capable of murdering Ernesto Chavez.

Juliet had her own violent streak, broken noses and barely stopping herself from killing a suspect with an axe. She wondered if that dark taint had been what had made her so determined to connect with her standoffish partner that first year. Apples and trees.

There was no index, but Juliet knew Lassiter. There was only one book with a dog-eared page. Her great-grandfather's name was written on it in Victorian cursive. She traced the line back with a gloved finger. There was no way of knowing which ancestor she and Carlton shared.

Why hadn't he told her?

How could he have told her, when the family crest was the symbol of the first murder? What could he possibly have said to make this all right?

She wished Carlton were there now, because she desperately needed to hear it.

There was a map spread out on the light table. The last known locations of the identified victims were marked on it, yellow dots with numbers serving as a key to the rap sheets and photos on the wall. Little flags marked the order of the times of death. The killer had started in Illinois, dipped south through Missouri and then onward to Texas.

Carlton's father was nothing personal, it seemed. He'd just happened to be transferred to Texas at the wrong time.

The feds had sent the outline of the case. Juliet picked it up and began paging through it. The Feds would bring the pictures of the crime scenes and the grave with them. The notes didn't mention anything ritualistic about the murders themselves. There were no symbols, no unnecessary sharp-force trauma on the bones. There were no defensive wounds at all. These were executions.

The Mark of Cain was the family crest.

Juliet walked over to the stack of oldest books. She un-bagged, searched, and re-bagged each until she found what she was looking for.

It was impossible, of course. The Bible was an oral history, embellished and retold by superstitious humans looking for an explanation for the world around them. It wasn't real. There was no way Carlton believed what the massive collection of codexes represented.

Correlation did not equal causation. The collection of rap sheets and decorations for violence in service of society on the forensics lab walls didn't make this true.

The first name on the first page was illuminated in medieval style. Two demons flanked it on either side. One was tearing a naked man apart with his bare hands, the other devouring a woman. The demons' wings were out-stretched to frame the name. A horned figure drawn with black ink watched over it all.

Cain.

Carlton kept a representation of the Mark chained with silver under a statue of the goddess of justice.

If a part of Lassiter believed it, even as an archetype, then perhaps a serial killer could believe it as fact.

“I'm telling you, that man needs Jesus,” Gus said. Juliet jumped in her seat. She hadn't heard him come up behind her.

“Not Carlton, his family,” Juliet said. She re-bagged the evidence with a fresh seal and pulled a chain-of-custody form from the drawer. “We need to interview Carlton's mother again.”

~*~

**7PM Wednesday**

Sam Brooks was shouting, demanding to know why Steve was doing all this. Carlton was surprised by how much he appreciated the attempt at help from someone he'd arrested.

Carlton closed his eyes as he vomited up more of the cold greenish water. He couldn't stop shivering enough to even manage to try to crawl away. Steve's foot connected with his ribs, a kick-shove that slid the Chief of Police across the stone floor and onto his side.

Steve grabbed Lassiter by the throat. It was his favorite way to move Carlton. The police chief couldn't actively or passively resist without cutting off his own air supply. Feeling the metal of the mattress-spring bite into his back for the first time wasn't a complete surprise.

It did, however, mean that an escape was now or never.

The parilla's well-earned reputation was severe enough Carlton decided his capitulation would be believable. The water dripping down his face would make it impossible for Steve to tell if he was crying or not. The choking also worked to his advantage, since it would disguise any lack of sincerity in his voice.

There wouldn't be a better time.

All he had to do was turn the knife on Steve instead of Brooks. If he hurt Steve badly enough to keep him down for five minutes, he could get his hands on the key and open the cage. Unlike Carlton, Brooks was still at full strength physically. He had as much to gain as Carlton by resistance. With Steve locked in his own cage, between the two of them they should be able to find a way out of the mill.

“I'll do it,” Carlton gasped. “Just, please, don't.”

“Chief, let me ask you something, and be honest. How stupid do you think I am?” Steve pressed two fingers hard into Carlton's wrist where he'd grabbed Steve's forearm helplessly. Carlton's hand spasmed, releasing his hold. He put a knee on Carlton's hip, pining him down as he forced Lassiter's wrist into the restraint and flicked it shut with his thumb.

He finished snapping closed the restraints around Carlton's limbs. With surgical precision, he applied the electrodes to the places on Carlton's body where the nerve endings were most numerous. Not that it truly mattered. Carlton was soaking wet on a metal frame.

Steve dried his hands. The matter of fact calmness made it worse, somehow, than sadistic pleasure.

Steve flicked on the power.

 


	4. Four

**K+24, 8:15 PM Wednesday**

Mona Carter, once Mona Lassiter, lived several hours from Santa Barbara. She and her wife Althea had opted to stay in a hotel during the investigation. Juliet called ahead. She took Shawn and Gus with her.

Juliet carefully laid out her theory that the same serial killer who had murdered Mona's ex-husband now had Carlton, and that said serial killer was on a mission to destroy what he considered the bloodline of Cain.

“What I need to know, is who else had access to these before you gave them to Carlton?” Juliet asked.

“Althea,” Mona asked, looking at the book in Juliet's hand like she'd seen a ghost. “Can you give us a minute, please?”

“I--” Althea looked like she was going to protest, then reconsidered. “All right. I'll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Booker will be furious I showed you,” Mona said bluntly once Althea had left. It struck Juliet that she had never heard Mona use her son's given name. “But if you don't know what you're getting yourself into you'll just get yourself killed.”

“I think I'm going to go with Althea,” Gus said, rising.

“Sit down,” Mona snapped, and Gus complied. She held her hand out for the book. When Juliet handed it over, Mona turned on the small gas cooktop and dropped the book onto the burner.

“Oh my God,” Juliet said. She berated herself for her stupidity in handing over evidence as much as she hated Mona for being a part of whatever had put her own son in danger. She pulled the book off the gas flame, turning it over so Shawn could upend his water bottle over it--

Except the book was fine. The plastic evidence bag was scorched but it hadn't melted to the leather. There were no singe marks, no smell beyond the burning plastic. Even though Shawn had just doused everything in water, only the evidence bag was wet.

Gus screamed. He ran for the door, jerked it open, and ran down the outside hallway still screaming. In this part of town it was doubtful anyone would care about the noise.

Shawn was gripping her arm like a lifeline. It took every ounce of Juliet's police training not to follow Gus.

It couldn't be a trick. It was Shawn's water bottle he'd just been drinking from. It was a city-issue evidence bag Juliet had brought with her. The flame was real, it had burnt the plastic.

The book was unharmed.

It couldn't be unharmed.

It was.

“Booker and I are... fine, now,” Mona stated. “He's a good man and father. But that isn't what he was created to be.”

~*~

**April 11, 1975**

“ _Focus, discipline, and control,” John Lassiter intoned._

“ _F—focus,” Carlton repeated as he wiped the sweat from his face. “Discipline. Control.”_

_The chairs stopped shaking and held steady in the air. Slowly the table rose as well. Carlton focused hardest on keeping the table level. There was a full cup of water on it. If he spilled so much as a drop, it would be the belt. There was no room for error in magic. Even the slightest loss of focus could result in a catastrophe._

“ _Good,” John said, walking around his son. “Now lower them, all at once. Bring just the necklace to you.”_

_The set lowered. The necklace did not lower with them, and floated gently across the room. Carlton caught it in his outstretched hands. He was sitting cross-legged on the dining room floor. It was his seventh birthday._

_The necklace was not a present._

“ _Who was the last owner of the necklace?”_

_Carlton hesitated. Scrying was difficult on a good day, and he was already tired._

“ _Carlton?”_

_His father wouldn't ask a third time._

_Carlton took a deep, shaky breath. He pictured raising a theater curtain in his mind. The rush of information was immediate. The neighbors were fighting: his wife had discovered the gambling debts, but the husband was just glad she didn't know about the mistress. There was a ghost at the end of the block torturing the current occupants of the home with sleepless nights. The necklace's last owner had been stabbed to death by the thief who had stolen it. Carlton's chest ached where her wounds had been._

_He wanted to close the curtain more than anything. He didn't dare._

“ _Amanda,” he said finally, pulling the name from the mess._

“ _And the necklace's creator?”_

_Carlton closed his eyes and bowed his head to hide his face. No matter what he saw in a scrying, weeping was punished even more stringently than spilling the water. Carlton stretched himself into the beyond, down the ladder-rungs of touch-memory embedded in the gold. He should be grateful it wasn't silver. Silver was the hardest to read, burning his mind where he touched it._

“ _Donald Moore.”_

“ _Call him up.”_

_Carlton swallowed. He hated reaching into the Veil even more than he hated reading silver. But he also knew better than to lie and say Moore had gone to Heaven. His father would have done the scrying and the summoning himself before giving Carlton the task._

“ _Focus. Discipline. Control,” he repeated to himself._

_He stretched into the Veil. The reapers were cold, distant presences. Angels were only slightly warmer, white lights in the gray. He stayed well clear of the black, sticky-slick cruelty of the demons. He'd been possessed once before, a red-eyed monster who had made him snap his own wrist for fun._

_Focus._

_He concentrated on the feeling of Donald Moore that the gold held. At last he found it, and pulled it forward._

_The specter glared at down at him when Carlton opened his eyes, raw hatred running through his mind like water down an anthill._

_Carlton released Donald._

_John's mouth thinned in impatience._

“ _Next time, hold the specter until I tell you to let go.”_

“ _Why are they all so mean?” Carlton asked, looking up. He panted for breath. He was exhausted and his head hurt._

“ _They are not 'mean,'  you are just weak.” John took the water off the table and held it out to his son._

“ _The last one wanted me to lose focus and let him go, so he said Mom hates me because you forced her marry you. They're mean.” Carlton drank the lukewarm water._

_John Lassiter sighed._

“ _You're the mind-reader. Does your mother hate you?”_

“ _Sometimes,” Carlton whispered, looking back down at the floor._

“ _Then what makes you think the spirit was trying to trick you? Carlton, those books they have you reading at school are just books. No one's parent loves them, it's just an animal's instinct to continue the species. If you want to be a step above the rest of the hairless apes running around this miserable planet, you'll realize that love, honor, and duty are just words people give their own selfishness.”_

_John knelt in front of his son. He hooked a finger under the boy's chin and urged him to look up._

“ _I'm saying this for your own good. You are special, more special than you can possibly understand right now. Your mother was my best option to make certain you would be born special. You are the blood of the first knight, and you will inherit all his power. In exchange for bringing you into this world the coven and I will be rewarded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. But not,” John tapped his son's nose with one finger, “if you don't toughen up.” John stood. “You'll be meeting your teacher in a few hours. Do not embarrass me with any of this non-sense.”_

_They'd learned in school that knights had stood for honor and duty, and often fought for love, but Carlton knew better than to say that out loud._

_His father's coven arrived after the sun set. They set up candles in the back yard, poured blood in intricate circles on the ground. He was surprised to see his mother stand in the center of the bloodwork. She wasn't part of the coven and didn't participate in the rituals. He didn't have to scry to know she didn't want to be there. He was certain Father was the reason she didn't try to leave._

_Carlton stood in front of his mother as instructed. He was dressed in soft black pants and a dark robe. The coven began the process of summoning. At the spell's climax a column black smoke appeared from the ground. It twisted serpentine in the air before entering his mother's mouth. His mother opened her eyes. They were black from lid to lid. Malevolence pushed hard against the theater curtain in his mind._

“ _Well, well, well. You weren't lying,” the demon said. It knelt and traced Carlton's brow with his mother's hand. “An exact copy of Cain, right down to the eyes. He will grow into a fine replacement. Lucifer will be very pleased indeed.”_

_Father hadn't been talking about the knights Carlton had learned about at school. His father had been talking about the first Knight of Hell, who had been dead since the Civil War as far as anyone knew._

“ _I won't!” Carlton shoved outward as hard as he could. He wasn't strong enough to hurt any of the coven. He didn't need to. All he needed was to distract them._

_Carlton ran, weaving between trees and yard ornaments. If he could just get to the bus-station--_

_His mother slid from behind a tree, gripping it with one hand and swinging in a mockery of joy._

“ _Boo!”_

_Carlton tried to stop and tripped himself instead. He hit the ground hard enough to skin his palms. He scrambled up and ran again. There was a church close by. The demon couldn't follow him there._

_Carlton felt his feet leave the ground. He was dragged through the mud and abruptly released._

“ _Try again!” the demon shouted gleefully._

_Carlton didn't think about where he was running this time. He just ran as fast as he could until he couldn't run anymore. He leaned against an iron fence to catch his breath, resting his head on his forehead. Maybe he'd lost his pursuer. Maybe--_

“ _Come now, dear,” said his mother's voice fondly. “Am I why you don't want to leave?”_

_Carlton turned around. His mother's eyes were still black._

_The black smoke poured out of his mother's mouth. Carlton held his hands up. He tried to push back against the smoke. The demon tore through the curtain surrounding his mind like a hot knife through flesh._

_His mother was lying on the ground. She tried to back away._

_Carlton's body knelt. He watched his hands close around her throat with a strength not their own. She scratched and kicked at him. Carlton felt the pain. The demon controlling his body only squeezed more tightly. It hadn't even left him enough control to tell his mother he didn't mean it._

“ _Help me,” Carlton screamed desperately into the beyond. There had to be an angel or a reaper somewhere nearby. A demon-hunter. Someone. “Anyone! Please, help!”_

_His mother's eyes closed. Her resistance was faltering._

“ _I'll do anything, please!”_

_The smoke rushed out of him as if swatted aside by an invisible hand. Carlton let go of his mother, rocking backwards into hard stone._

“ _You may have found a protector for now.” The demon's fury was in his mind, there was no sound in his ears. “But you are a killer born of killers. You will feel the bloodthirst of your lineage before long. When you do, I will be waiting!”_

_The black smoke evaporated._

_Carlton craned his neck to look up. He was leaning against the stone pillar between the courthouse parking lot gates. It was topped by a bronze statue of a blindfolded woman. She held a sword and scales._

_He knew an idol when he saw one. His rescuer._

_Carlton drew his knees against his chest. He couldn't possibly be in any more trouble with Father than he was already, so he dropped his head onto his knees and started to cry._

_~*~_

“The coven had spent a hundred years documenting and breeding Cain's descendants to create Booker. His refusal had cost them everything,” Mona finished. “John was stripped of his powers as a punishment for failure. After that, he couldn't force me to stay. Divorce was almost impossible to get back then, but I left as soon as I could. Booker stays well clear of all of it. He even kept the books to make sure he wouldn't have children with anyone else who's a descendant, so there would be less chance his children would inherit the power.”

Juliet stared mutely. It made no sense.

It made complete sense.

Carlton hadn't told the FBI the victims were Cain's descendants because the agents who responded would only get themselves killed. He hadn't told Juliet for the same reason.

With a childhood like that it was no wonder he'd kept his emotions under such tight lock and key when they'd first met. It was a miracle he'd been able to recover his ability to feel joy at all.

The mixed signals made sense now, too. All those times they'd been on the edge of something other than best friends and he'd pulled back. She was blood of Cain, same as he was. If he'd had Lilly with Juliet instead of Marlowe--

Carlton's single-minded, almost fanatical, devotion to police work. He had to have felt like he owed Justice everything for saving him and his mother.

“Could we-- do you think we could use magic to find Lassie?” Shawn asked.

“With brains like that, kid, you could be a Democrat,” Mona said.

It was theoretically possible they were still chasing a serial killer. One of the coven members could have sprouted a conscience and decided to clean up the mess. Given the sheer volume of murders and the complete lack of evidence, it was more likely something – not someone – else had done the killing.

A monster wouldn't have used a bump-and-grab. A monster wouldn't have worn masks for the benefit of the surveillance cameras. Neither would a witch.

“Magic wasn't used in Carlton's kidnapping,” Juliet said haltingly. She would have to get used to saying that without irony. “Whoever did this used conventional means.” They had ruled out everyone related to Carlton's work. There had been no ransom demand. This wasn't a normal kidnapping with a usual motive. Not magic, but not mortal either. Somewhere in between.

A third option: a human who had known Carlton had something to offer besides being the Chief of Police. A normal human who had, at some point, had access to the coven's records.

“We need the names of the coven members.”

Mona pulled the hotel-room notepad and pen across the desk.

“Won't do you any good. You've got bubkhis for a warrant,” she said. She began writing names.

“I know a guy,” Shawn said. “If he can hack the national weather service, a few banks aren't going to be a problem.”

 


	5. Five

**10 AM Thursday**

“I've never even met him.” Brooks was sitting in his cage with his back to Lassiter out of respect for the police chief's modesty. The enemy of your enemy was your friend, even when he was a police officer.

“Neither have I,” Lassiter panted. He was back up on the chain. His legs had given out completely hours ago. It was getting difficult to breathe. “We're just pawns.” That was the thing people forgot about magic. Spirits, fey, angels, demons: they all had their own agendas. For most of them, human well-being wasn't on them.

Juliet was looking for him in all the wrong places, no doubt. Chasing convicts without alibis, looking for money trails that didn't exist. He didn't dare risk reaching out to her to find out for sure. He was just lucky something hadn't already been summoned by his uncontrolled call for help during his kidnapping.

“Look,” Brooks continued, “I'm no doctor, but any one of those things could give someone a heart attack. He's doing all of them.”

“Don't worry, I'm not murdering a civilian,” Carlton said flatly. Once a descendant of Cain gave into the bloodthirst, there was no going back. His father had been proof enough of that. Lassiter killed on the law's command. It was the only way to keep control.

Steve was fair game. Brooks was not.

Brooks was quiet for a long time. In. Out. Just breathe past the pain.

“I lied before,” Brooks finally said. His voice was quiet. “After you arrested me. I did it, Jess and that guy. I'm not a civilian. I-- I'm a criminal.”

“I am aware,” Lassiter said.

“If we get out of this, I'm going to--”

Brooks stopped talking when Steve opened the door. The smell of food hit Carlton like a physical blow. It was a microwave burrito, the kind of thing Carlton wouldn't usually even consider food, but now--

The food was for Brooks. Brooks accepted it guiltily and wolfed it down as discreetly as possible.

“I don't think you're hungry enough to kill over food yet,” Steve said to Lassiter. “Give it time.” Steve released the winch. Carlton dropped to the floor. He didn't try to move. The last thing he needed was Steve's hand around his throat now that Carlton could finally breathe freely.

“Just look at you,” Steve continued, approaching the Devil's Trap. “Helpless. Useless. Alone. An entire life of never deviating from the rules, and for what? Where is God to save you? You have to know all that righteousness doesn't mean anything to him. As far as he's concerned you were tainted long before you were born.” Steve knelt, looking at Carlton frankly. “You can be as self-sacrificing as you want, protect the innocent and strike back against the guilty: but you are never getting into Heaven. Why fight the inevitable? Embrace it.”

“Like you did?” Lassiter deduced. “You made a Devil's Deal for your money, and now you don't want to live up to your end of the bargain.” Carlton snorted weakly. “It doesn't work like that. You can't just trade someone else at the last minute.”

Steve smiled.

“The Mark wasn't just a sigil to mark Cain. It was a prison,” Steve said. He tilted his head. “Cain had all his children after receiving it. In so doing, he tied each and every one to the Darkness that prison held. You are the purest sample of that bloodline in thousands of years. If that Mark can be called forward in anyone, it's you.” Steve leaned forward. “The contract is already amended. You will kill that man in desperation, just like Cain, and when you do I will present your corrupted soul to the King of Hell himself: debt paid in full.”

“Now,” Steve slapped his knees as he stood up. “Let's get back to work, shall we?”

~*~

**K+40; Noon, Thursday**

Only four names on Mona's list were still living.

None of them still lived in Santa Barbara.

“I have an idea,” Shawn's hacker friend, Dennis, said. “Airlines' network security isn't as tight as a banks.”

Only one of the living surnames had flown into Santa Barbara during the week before Lassiter was taken.

Not one of the coven members, but his son: Andrew Pellegrino.

~*~

**9 PM Thursday**

Steve shoved Carlton off the parilla. Lassiter curled up on his side, cradling his left arm gingerly. The muscle spasms had broken the bone, no question. It was his second round on the device.

“Just do it, man,” Brooks begged. His eyes were red. “I can't listen to you scream like that again. Just pick up the knife and get it over with.”

“It's amazing how fragile the human brain is,” Steve said. “Haven't even laid a finger on him and he's already broken.” He reached over and pulled Carlton's left wrist. Carlton shouted and pulled away. His vision was spotted with pain.

“Resisting under torture is only in the movies, Chief,” Steve continued. “Our little mortal psyches always snap. It's up to you. You can pick up the knife now, or I can start the entire cycle again and you can kill him afterwards.” The needles, the wheel, the chain. Carlton had already lost count of how many times he'd been through it. It had to have been at least a week since he'd really slept. It was impossible to tell.

“Think about it,” Steve crooned gently in Carlton's ear. “You even have his permission. One flick of the knife and all the pain stops. Food. Rest. No more fighting the bloodthirst for control. All you have to do is... make the world a little better place, really.”

“Its okay,” Brooks said desperately. “I'm dead either way, you know that. Just promise me-- Promise me you'll tell my Mom I changed for real this time.”

Carlton closed his eyes. He couldn't imagine how much his full weight hanging on his broken arm would hurt, much less followed by twitching against the restraints on a system full of amphetamine.

Steve was right. No one could resist forever; character had nothing to do with it. Permission would make the act easier. Carlton knew how to make it quick, even painless.

But Brooks was also right: Steve had been keeping Carlton on the knife-edge of a heart attack for who knew how long.

Whether he died or became corrupted, either way he was never seeing those he loved again.

Marlowe. Juliet. Lilly. His kid sister, Lulu.

Even his mother, Shawn, and Guster, in their own ways.

_Lady Justice, I have served you from the moment you first saved me. Save me again, now, please. If I can't live as a cop, at least let me die one._

The response to his prayer wasn't a numb arm and jaw pain. It felt like a drop of honey. The warm gold light filled his heart, and moving outward through his blood with each beat.

His arm still hurt. His body still ached and he was still starved. He still regretted leaving Marlowe to raise Lilly alone and the burden he knew all too well that would place on Lilly.

It just didn't matter anymore.

Even the weakest gods could grant peace to their followers in their most desperate hours. Lady Justice was far from weak. Humans still revered her so much they placed her statue in every courthouse.

“You're right,” Carlton said. He'd been possessed twice before. This wasn't like it at all. It felt like his voice belonged to someone else, yes, but it was also vehemently his own. “Alone, everyone breaks. But I am not alone. And you can't touch me anymore.”

“No,” Steve rasped in disbelief and anger. “You miserable son of a bitch, how dare you?” Steve drove his foot into Carlton's gut to punctuate each word. His eyes were wild and glazed. “I am too close, I've come too far! Who, who did you pray to? How dare you resort to prayer, you were my only chance, how dare you, you miserable, selfish bastard--!”

Steve was silenced by a gunshot to the forehead.

Half in the Veil and half out if it, Carlton watched as the hellhounds dragged Steve's screaming soul away.

~*~

“Well, that's that, then,” Rowena sighed. She was only there in her astral form, invisible and inaudible to the mortal policemen swarming below like so many ants.

“It wouldn't have worked,” said a deep and menacing voice. The witch looked up at the man who had appeared on the rafter next to her. She didn't recognize him on his own merits. But even surrounded by a full beard and long, salt-and-pepper hair, the family resemblance of those blue eyes was unmistakeable. His dark coat, thin black cane, and the ring he wore on his right hand were unmistakeable in a different way.

“Bringing the Mark back, heavens no,” the witch admitted brightly. Not that she'd told the truth to the utter failure whose brains were currently decorating the mills' walls. “But a corrupted soul and a body that close to your own would have been more than sufficient to summon your spirit from wherever you'd opted to spend your afterlife.” It would have been enough to cage and control it, too. At least, as much as it was possible to control Cain. Even the Mark hadn't been able to dominate his will completely.

Of course, Cain's ill-fated replacement had ultimately proven just as impossible to control. Bloody-minded stubbornness was shaping up to be a family trait.

Rowena suspected that ungovernable will was precisely why either God, the Darkness, or both had appointed the Father of Murder as the previous Death's successor. Couldn't have history repeating itself.

“Of course,” the witch continued, “I couldn't have known about the promotion when I started, could I? Congratulations are in order. The uniform certainly looks good on you.”

“My predecessor tolerated being pulled in the middle of celestial civil wars,” the fledgling Death replied. His stern voice wasn't brimstone anymore, but marble. “I don't. What lives: dies.” He looked down at the immortal Scottish witch where she sat. “Including witches and your son's hunter friends.”

Rowena faked a laugh.

“Why, my dear Death, I'm flattered. Is that a threat?”

“Of course it's a threat. Try something like this again and it'll be a whole lot more.”

Death stepped off the rafter, disappearing in midair.

The red-headed witch sighed again, her flirtatiousness disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared. Trying again to make a flesh-prison would be pointless. As Death, Cain could simply kill his descendant with a touch and whisk the man's soul away to the The Empty, far beyond anyone's reach. He was certainly ruthless enough to protect himself so.

She supposed she should be comforted that Cain's appointment and declaration of neutrality meant that in a single stroke Lucifer and the Winchesters both had lost two potential allies from their arsenals. She wasn't comforted at all. Without the First Knight under their control, it was entirely possible Rowena had hitched her wagon to the wrong fallen star in this war.

Rowena couldn't even console herself by killing the ridiculously stubborn mortal who had cost her what would have been a truly wondrous weapon. Justice would doubtlessly be most displeased, and the last thing they needed was a heretofore neutral goddess chucking it in with the Winchesters because she was on a revenge kick.

“What a complete _waste_ of a day.”

~*~

Carlton's pulse was thready, but there. As savagely as Andrew Pellegrino had been beating his captive, a concussion or internal bleeding were absolutely possibilities. Given the roadmap of torture on Carlton's body, so was a full-on cardiac arrest.

“Stay with me, Lassiter,” Juliet said desperately. She framed his face with both hands. “Please, wake up!”

Lassiter's eyes opened, blinking slowly. His left arm was broken, Juliet could tell. He reached up with his right hand to cover one of hers, as if he was making certain she was real. Given what she'd learned earlier in the evening, maybe he was.

“O'Hara?”

His face was serene, like all was right with the world at last. It was terrifying. Juliet had been around enough dying victims and dying cops to know that people who were screaming were fine. It was the ones at peace you had to worry about most.

“Carlton, I won't let you die on me, so don't even try.”

The peaceful expression changed: there was a glitter of affection in those too-blue eyes, and a slight twitch of humor to the mouth.

“Being-- Head Detective's-- made you drunk with power.”

Juliet smiled in equal parts relief and fondness. He'd said something very similar to her on her first case as lead, delighted she'd finally started standing up for herself.

Carlton was going to be fine, eventually, after enough hospitalization and therapy. Eventually, Juliet knew she would be fine as well.

 


End file.
